


A Crown of Stars

by Keikaru



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Angst, Burning letters, F/M, Feelings Realization, Insecurity, Líf writing poetry, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, day of devotion, poetic imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:42:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29542536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keikaru/pseuds/Keikaru
Summary: In which Líf tries to compose poetry to show his gratitude for the Summoner. During the process, his feelings for her emerge, but so does a melancholy in his heart.--If she wished, he would turn the world into her garden.If she asked, he would accompany the Summoner on her pilgrimage to end of the world.He would travel through treacherous ravines to snowcapped valleys, through hellacious deserts to the deepest trench in the ocean. Nothing was out of his reach, so long as the summoner allowed an ample amount of time.But for now, a stroll through the courtyard would suffice.
Relationships: Líf & Summoner | Eclat | Kiran, Líf/Summoner | Eclat | Kiran
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	A Crown of Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Because I wanted more Líf content, I wrote this earlier in February and finally got around to posting it. Anyways, enjoy! c:

Hidden behind the trellis of ivory roses, Líf paced back and forth with a furrowed brow.

The flower buds shimmered with morning dew as sunlight emerged from behind the curtain of clouds. Like glazed porcelain, the roses glistened. Its beauty was ephemeral, but poets immortalized their loveliness in pen.

“Even stars would…no, again,” he mumbled, reprimanding his use of clichés. But clichés were _familiar,_ he reasoned stiffly. Twinkling stars, orbiting planets, being cloaked in moonlight—all evoked the imagery of the heavens. They were evocative of the celestial.

It was a suitable comparison for the Summoner.

Even so, the comparison was dramatic. He felt like he overstepped his boundaries, but he sincerely believed that the Summoner deserved a description beyond diamonds and gemstones.

That _she_ was something more, something _beyond_.

Again, Líf shook his head in frustration. He allowed a sigh.

“Stars would descend…from their heavenly throne…swathed in samite robes…you are…to me you are…”

_What is the Summoner to me?_

Líf felt he trespassed the fine line between admiration and idolatry. Would it be wrong to liken Summoner to the divine? Perhaps that was _too_ strange, _too_ forward.

After all, the upcoming occasion was called Day of Devotion, not Day of Liturgy.

…

Yet the question that confronted him churned out a silence that could be measured in minutes.

 _A close comrade_ , he decided, though in a hesitant manner. _A dear friend_ , he amended, several minutes after.

 _No,_ he concluded, with a reluctant finality. _Summoner is…someone I cherish deeply_.

Nothing more, nothing less. That was what he swore to himself. 

Difficult as it was, he could not ignore how bright his core glowed. He shook his head in a defeated manner and tried to banish this fluttery, hopeful, _foolish_ feeling from his mind.

Of course, these feelings did not disappear. They were not tepid.

Not in the slightest.

Like a winter iris wreathed in frost, his affections bloomed under unusual circumstances. Cradled by snow and drinking in moonlight, the flower flourished in this frigid climate. It persevered through the ice and blossomed like it was springtime.

Dauntless and beautiful, they were the emblem of warmth in a snowy landscape.

…

Again, Líf tried to compose his thoughts. A declaration of gratitude should be simple. His words didn’t have to be grand; they didn’t have to be spun by a poet laureate.

If a sentiment from the heart sufficed, then why was he unable to say _thank you for allowing me to lean on you, Summoner_ and leave it at that _?_ For some odd reason, he couldn’t convey these words of gratitude with ease.

It should have been simple. There was nothing more, nothing less. Nothing more, nothing less…and yet somewhere in his mind, the empty spaces between his words of gratitude sheltered a feeling he was all too familiar with, but one he dared not to let the world marvel upon…

Líf bent over a mahogany desk, penning down his thoughts. Strewn around him were papers filled with half-finished verses and sentiments. 

_In a field of fireflies, your eyes—_

No. It wasn’t good enough. Fireflies were dazzling, but temporary.

Again, he dipped his quill into ink and composed.

_Reflected in your eyes is the portrait of my soul—_

Too solemn. A vision of melancholy, perhaps. These words should ring out like bells of joy, not a toll for an execution. 

_Although my core lacks a heart, just one look from you is enough to create a heartbeat._

Immediately, his hand froze. As Líf stood up, the back of his wooden chair scrapped harshly against the floor. _Ah,_ he thought weakly, pushing aside the paper and pen. Líf wondered if the room had always been this chilly. He wondered if there was a draft.

 _That must be it._ It was cold. So, so cold.

But it was only a flimsy excuse. The cold barely fazed him. Even if it did, he possessed no warmth to call his own. 

But he just wanted to distract himself. From these…feelings.

It was impossible to suffocate them. They emerged like phantom roses—love that wished to abound, but he cut off his feelings near the root because he was _too shy, too unconfident, too careful_ to express himself. Despite his efforts to suppress these emotions, they only flourished into a field of roses until he could no longer deny it.

Love was less of a phantom of feeling and more of a tangible pain in his chest.

He cursed these thoughts. He cursed how he kept these feelings close his chest but far from allowing the words to escape his lips.

After standing by the window and observing it was shut, he moved toward the fireplace with an air of melancholy.

Even if he acknowledged these feelings, he knew the Alfonse in this world was fond of the Summoner. It was natural that Líf’s feelings toward her remained unchanged. Even if this Summoner wasn’t _his_ Summoner, Líf still felt a connection, a familiarity, a fondness for her as well.

Even if their bond transcended worlds, it only served to complicate matters.

The person he wished to have in his world disappeared before he could reveal his feelings. It would be unfair in this life, and to this Prince Alfonse, to reveal those feelings to _her_ now.

After all, a shadow could only remain if there was light. His existence here meant that the Summoner needed him, and that was enough to keep him tethered to this world.

…

It had to be enough. He couldn’t ask for anything more. He couldn’t.

And just like that, the cold felt so unbearable.

Achingly so.

Without thinking, Líf reached for a match that was kept on the mantle above.

_Ah. It is the last one._

Gingerly, he lit the match. A flash of orange, a flick of the wrist—the fire leapt to life. The logs burned and the familiar scent of charred wood and cinders wafted around the room. Entranced, he watched as the flames danced to a song unheard to mortal ears. If the Gods had a song, this was one he yearned to hear.

…

“Enough of this,” Líf muttered, tearing his sight from the warm fire.

He gathered the strewn pages in his quarters and gazed at his handwriting. Líf scanned the words a final time and kneeled before the crackling hearth.

Slowly, he fed the papers into the flame. Tentatively, the warm embers licked the edges before greedily consuming each sheet. With each offering, tendrils of smoke caressed his face as he watched his declarations of gratitude disappear into the fire.

He wasn’t sure how much time elapsed. All he remembered was the fireplace poker being in his hands, and he shifted the logs around in absentminded manner. Until all the papers were consumed by the fire, he would remain unsatisfied.

Reality only crawled back when he heard a gentle rap on his door. By then, he already returned to his usual calm self, as if the past few hours did not occur.

“Líf? Are you in?”

While burning the papers were cathartic, her voice was sublime.

Even her voice could quell the most tumultuous seas.

Líf retracted the iron poker from the fireplace and responded.

“Yes. The door is open.”

Despite maintaining an even tone, a lingering sadness remained in his mind. He was resolved to push it away, just for the sake of the Summoner.

The door creaked and the Summoner entered his room. Before turning around, Líf knew she hovered by the entrance. He remembered how she disliked intruding in personal spaces. Perhaps the Summoner was too considerate, or too conscious around others. 

“Líf, I wanted to ask— _oh._ ” He heard her pause in surprise. He wondered if her gaze shifted to the item in his hands. “You must be busy, sorry. It’s not too terribly important but let me know when you have some time.”

“I am available now,” Líf answered, without missing a beat. He stood up and brushed the cinders from himself. As he turned around, he inquired in a calm manner to her. “What did you need? A personal visit suggests it is no trivial matter.”

The Summoner gazed at him with kind eyes and nodded. Somehow, she always conveyed a comforting presence. Like the afternoon sun illuminating a familiar nook in the library, like a gentle wind threading through one’s hair. Líf wondered if his feelings were written plainly across his face.

Just one look from the Summoner could expose it all.

“Are you…cold?”

Líf paused _._

_If the Gods had a song…they would compose it with your voice._

“I thought I was cold.”

“Ah. You always seem so impervious to the weather; be it snow or shine,” the Summoner started, smiling ever so gently. “I suppose even generals aren’t invincible.”

“You forget that I was once alive, Summoner,” Líf quipped, with no heat behind his words. Just as he did, he glanced over her head, looking somewhere beyond. As if searching for the past. “Being near you…it revives something I’ve forgotten…that this too were halls I once walked. That it is still home to me.”

“Does it pain you to remember?”

Líf turned his gaze back to the Summoner. He observed their smile and noticed it seemed to falter. Just a bit.

He chided himself. If only he chose his words with more care. Seeing the Summoner in this state made his chest churn. 

After a moment, he responded in a quiet voice and placated her to the best of his abilities.

“Not anymore. But Summoner, was this really the reason behind your visit?”

“Oh, wait. I had almost forgotten—” as if understanding Líf’s subtle cue, the Summoner changed the topic. Her eyes shimmered like the wings of a butterfly as she discussed about the upcoming festival. “Actually, it might be better to show you. Oboro and Forrest wanted to get your opinion on something. Think of it as your chance to partake in the merriments of the season.”

“Merriments? What…what did the tailors have in mind?” Puzzled, he leaned the iron poker against the wall as the Summoner grabbed his gauntleted hand. Her hands were smaller than his own. “Must I be cajoled into such revelry?”

“Yes, Lord Líf,” the Summoner beamed, guiding him from his room and into the marbled hallway. “Your attendance is required. Surely you must not turn down a potential dance partner?”

“I do not remember agreeing to anything,” he mused, feeling his mood lighten. “But I will oblige, if it makes you happy.”

“You honor me, my lord.” She let go his hand and whirled back, pretending to courtesy to him. He found it quite endearing of her.

“Raise your head. We are equals.”

Just like that, laughter spilled from her lips and he watched, mesmerized. As they walked down the halls decorated with portraits and pennants, she fell into a comfortable pace beside him.

Even if her hand no longer held his, the empty space between his fingers yearned for hers.

…

“Let’s take a detour,” she spoke up suddenly. “I know the tailors could wait just a mite more.”

“Where do you have in mind?” Líf asked. Curiosity was a tempting vixen.

When he turned to look at her, she only hummed in response. And surely enough, he was content with just that.

If she wished, he would turn the world into her garden.

If she asked, he would accompany the Summoner on her pilgrimage to end of the world.

He would travel through treacherous ravines to snowcapped valleys, through hellacious deserts to the deepest trench in the ocean. Nothing was out of his reach, so long as the summoner allowed an ample amount of time.

But for now, a stroll through the courtyard would suffice. 

Beams of light filtered between the white pillars as the Summoner bounded forth. Sunlight naturally followed her, and she was cloaked in its radiant warmth. He stayed on the path while she stepped closer toward the flowers, reaching out just so her fingers could skim the fountain’s surface.

In a fluid motion, she turned around and smiled at him. He could have sworn she whispered _something_ , but his words were caught in his throat as he noticed how a golden light enveloped her. 

Líf could have sworn the light bouncing off her hair created the impression of a halo.

_I would weave you a crown of stars, just to see it dim in comparison to you._

Líf didn’t remember much of the tailor’s visit once they arrived. His mind was preoccupied by other thoughts, notably ones that made him feel fluttery and at ease.

When asked if he would like to don a veil instead of his usual mouth guard, he was hesitant. Nothing suited him more than his usual armaments but…perhaps something different would be okay for a special day.

Nevertheless, it was new.

It made him feel self-conscious.

Behind a partition, the veil he tried on was transparent. He observed himself in the mirror and concluded that it was impractical if he was suddenly forced into combat during the festival. Of course, the probability of that was low because guards would be patrolling the grounds…but there could always be the _possibility_ of a battle and that _might_ require his assistance and…

Líf blinked. No. A festival was meant to be a merry time. If anything, he should welcome a distraction and enjoy himself for once. 

Banishing these anxious thoughts, he removed the veil and replaced it was his usual armor. Líf stepped from behind the partition and carefully placed the veil back on a mannequin.

While waiting for one of the tailors to return—they were busy fitting others after all—he glanced around the room. No matter where his eyes roamed, they would settle back onto the veil.

Foolish as he was, staring at the garment only encouraged more thoughts about it.

Perhaps he glanced at it for too long because by the time he looked up, Forrest was already right beside him, waiting patiently for his opinion.

“I’m afraid it doesn’t suit me.” Líf hoped his words came out politely. He wondered if he sounded too stiff. 

If Forrest was attending to him now, that meant Oboro was fitting another person. Possibly Thrasir, as he thought he saw a sliver of hair as she turned the corner. Summoner was whisked away before she could join him, most likely discussing festival finances with Commander Anna and co.

“It’s perfectly fine, Lord Líf.” Forrest responded, with a bundle of fabric in his arms. He then peered up at Líf with kind eyes. “If you do change your mind, let me know. Trying new things can be intimidating, but often, it can be just as rewarding.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Having spent over an hour in the dress making wing of the palace, he was almost relieved to leave. The ordeal wasn’t too taxing, but it revealed to Líf an aspect of himself he wasn’t too fond of.

An uneasy feeling welled in his chest as he walked down the halls and through the courtyard. Bliss seemed to melt away as these thoughts clawed their way into his mind.

As he arrived at his quarters, he closed the door behind him and stood still.

His eyes swept across his tidy room and landed on a mirror that sat near his mahogany desk. He walked toward it and placed a hand over the glass, turning it away from him.

_Mask or veil, it makes little difference to conceal it._

Líf moved toward the windows, observing the gardens below. He caught sight of his reflection and he pulled the ivory curtains closed.

The room dimmed and he tried to confront his thoughts.

_This ghoulish maw of mines bothers me not._

As for how others perceived him, he didn’t dwell on it. It mattered very little to him.

If that was how he felt, he wondered why his chest seemed to thrum with uncertainty. He paced back and forth again, and strangely enough; his eyes traveled toward a light source in his room. Confusion muddled his thoughts until he realized that light source was from earlier.

_The fireplace._

That was enough to stir him from his melancholic bout. 

Immediately, Líf chided himself for being so careless. He had left an open fire unattended.

Fortunately, the flames thinned out save for a few embers. He quickly located the fire poker and prodded the ashes around until all traces of the fire was extinguished.

For good measure, he knelt in front of the hearth and nudged at the ashes for a few more minutes. Traces of paper remained, but most were beyond salvageable. His written verses only existed in memory now.

Yes…that was the best choice.

Allowing a sigh, he leaned the poker against the wall near his desk. Líf took a seat in the chair and closed his eyes, trying to regain his composure. When he felt calm, the sight of his dark room greeted him.

Gingerly, he reached for the desk drawer. His gauntleted hands scratched the wooden surface and he slightly winced. Ordinarily they did not inconvenience him. Right now, he was being unusually clumsy. 

The drawer slid out and revealed a lone envelope sealed with red wax. Stamped onto the wax was the insignia of the royal family.

Líf turned over the envelop and written on the front was the Summoner’s name. Her name was penned in his elegant script.

Day of Devotion neared but he was uncertain if the letter should be read by his dear Summoner.

For a while, he thumbed at the letter, hesitant how she would receive it. He didn’t realize how bright his core glowed as he thought about her. And that was indication enough that he had to write a _second_ letter.

One that revealed less of his feelings and more of her dedication to the Order of Heroes.

Yes, that was a safer arrangement. After all, he was only a shadow passing in their world. He was a phantom, a specter, a _wraith_ that roamed the halls like a relic from a bygone world.

…

Even if he was a ghost, ghosts held their own light.

His core illuminated his words as he wrote. The light that shone on the paper was just a mere fraction of how he felt. His true feelings were concealed by the shadows of his room, and he intended for it to remain that way.

He couldn’t pursue the Summoner in this world. It would be too selfish of him. Besides, someone needed the Summoner more than him.

Even so, just this once, he wanted to be selfish.

He remembered how long ago, before being called to this world, before his world was devoured in despair and grief, he was once a Prince Alfonse of His World. He was once a sweet prince that cherished his closest friend and confidant, Kiran of His World.

Back then, Kiran once asked what Líf wished for most in the world, and at that time, he was unable to answer, thinking little of it when he already had all that he wished for. 

Saving his timeline was impossible, but in a way, that wish was granted because Prince Alfonse’s world was spared from Hel’s machinations.

If Líf was given a second wish, he found the answer the moment he stepped into this realm and laid eyes on the hooded Summoner. 

_What I want most in the world…is to see you again_.

Líf sealed the second envelope with red wax. He stood up and held both envelopes, eyeing each with a long gaze before moving toward the bookshelf and picking out a tome. Thrasir taught him basic spells, but he thought of himself more of a swordsman than a mage.

He preferred the ceremony to lighting a match rather than conjuring a flame in his hand. Unfortunately, he ran out of matches, so he whispered an incantation and a few seconds later—a sphere of fire leapt to life in his palm.

Without wavering, he set both envelopes alight and watched them burn.

_You have brought light into places where I thought were extinguished._

The golden brilliance illuminated his room until he was certain that both letters returned to ash. His feelings leapt from nothing, and they returned to as before. He could not expect the Summoner to reciprocate his feelings, it would only complicate her relationship with Prince Alfonse.

_To be by your side, this is the greatest honor I could have._

He would love her, but only from afar. He would protect her, until he could no longer be her shield.

Prince Alfonse in this world needed her most of all. It would be cruel for Líf to carry her away. After all, the Summoner in His World died. The Summoner he saw now, though it greatly pained him to admit, was a substitute for the friend he lost long ago.

He loved her _so dearly, so deeply, so devotedly_ that it grieved him beyond words. It was only now that he could feel the full extent of his heartache.

Loving her was bliss itself. Loving her was reason enough to ravage a realm to bring her back. But most of all, because he cherished her, he couldn’t…he couldn’t destroy the happiness on her face in this lifetime.

Cruel were the whims of fate but blessed was he to see her alive again. If anything, his heart was hers to hold.

…

Alas, he thought, as nothing but cinders remained in his palm, even the light must dim.

And dim it did.

**Author's Note:**

> I know it hints toward a second part, but we’ll see hehehe. I’ll tag this as completed for now, because I’m not sure how I want to end it. I just loved these ideas so I stitched it together! 
> 
> And thanks for reading! Líf deserves some love. :D


End file.
